


Irresistible

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: ABAP era, Abuse of the italics button, Belly Kink, Button Popping, Dom!Patrick, Exhibitionism, Feeding, M/M, Stuffing, feederism(ish), stuffing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Pete could fucking bust right then and there.Patrick’s shirt button was right in front of them on the fucking stage.Pointedlyoffof his shirt.Because of Pete.Fuck.





	Irresistible

**Author's Note:**

> YO, THIS FIC HAS BELLY STUFFING, BUTTON POPPING, AND PETE WENTZ HAVING A RAGING HARD-ON. IF THAT AIN'T YOUR KINDA GIG, YOU'RE GONNA WANNA CLICK OFF.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!
> 
> [EDIT: orphaning this. not comfortable with writing stuff like this about actual people. sorry.]

Pete could fucking bust right then and there.

Patrick’s shirt button was right in front of them on the fucking stage.

Pointedly _off_ of his shirt.

_Because of Pete._

**_Fuck._ **

Pete should probably backtrack.

Catering in a private dressing room was too much power for one man to have bestowed upon him. Even more so a man interested in Pete and Patrick’s sort of… _game_. And they played, right backstage as Ellen De-Fucking-Generes was interviewing another random person, and they were set to hit the stage with Demi Lovato on live TV in _twenty bloody minutes._

If Pete wasn't sure before, he definitely knew he was going _straight_ to Hell now.

Patrick's leather jacket was thrown somewhere in the corner, shucked off as Pete had wormed his way onto Patrick's lap with a cookie in hand. Pete pressed it gently to Patrick’s lips, a silent question, asking to play their little game. Patrick eyed him suspiciously; they had just eaten a big lunch, they were gonna be on TV, they had to _perform_ — but then he cocked his brow micheviously and opened his mouth. There was something about the thrill, the fact that only they would know what had happened that was just _really_ fucking hot. Plus, the cookie was raspberry cheesecake, Patrick's favourite. He couldn't say no… and so he didn't.

They should have been warming up, but instead Patrick was pinned beneath Pete, little treats being delicately— and then _not_ so delicately— pushed into his mouth. One of Pete's hands held the snacks; the other rested gently on the side of Patrick's belly as it was pushed further out by each rich, chocolatey brownie and smooth, creamy caramel square. The stodgy bits of food stifled the same moans that they elicited, and when he wasn't chewing, Pete's lips were sealed firmly over Patrick's, tasting the mingling sweet flavours on his tongue.

But then it was show time, and Pete and Patrick had demolished a quarter of the catering and it _showed_. The usually soft swell of Patrick's belly was distended much farther than normal, roundness disrupted by the buttons on Patrick’s shirt straining to stay in place. Pete stared at what he'd done, pupils blown; Patrick was gonna have to hide that somehow. Panicking, Pete rushed over to the other side of the room, snagging the leather jacket off the floor.

“Aww, fuck—” Patrick groaned, gingerly lifting himself up from the couch he was on, one arm curled around his belly, which— shit, Pete didn't know they'd gone so far, he was fucking full. Hurrying back to Patrick, Pete brought the jacket up around his shoulders and adjusted the collar as Patrick thrust his arms into the sleeves.

“Can you zip it?” Pete asked, already eyeing the way the buttons on Patrick's shirt were taut. Sucking in as hard as he could, Patrick tried to zip the jacket up, and succeeded, but barely. “You good?”

“No, I won't be able to sing like this,” Patrick breathed, voice strained. Fingers fumbling at the zipper, Patrick ripped it down, gasping once he was freed. Pete could have sworn he heard the buttons on Patrick's shirt groan as his belly pushed out again. It would’ve been tantalizing, if not for Joe smacking the door urgently.

“We gotta go, guys, stop sucking face!” Joe shouted, followed by a loud snort from Andy. Patrick’s gaze landed on Pete, eyes suddenly dark and devilish. He tugged his shirt down over his belly, watching the fabric pull tighter, and then stole a short, devious kiss.

“We’re coming now!” Patrick called, smirking at Pete and readjusting his jacket. Pete gaped, watching as Patrick tugged his shirt down once more (it had ridden up) and winked, sliding out into the hall. Blinking owlishly, Pete stared at the space in the hallway. Another call from Joe, and he was bolting out, trying to ignore the tightness in his jeans.

And now they were onstage, playing Irresistible, absolutely killing it— much like Patrick was _actually_ killing Pete, right fucking there. Because naturally, just before Demi came up behind them, Patrick made eye contact with Pete and flexed in a strange way. Anyone looking on would just assume it was part of Patrick’s dancing, but _no_ — he flexed, and Pete watched as the button that would usually sit right over Patrick’s belly button went skittering across the stage, the black plastic invisible to the rest of the room.

Then Demi came in, and Pete was forced to tear his eyes off of Patrick’s, cheeks flushing.

His button fucking popped on TV.

 _Live television_.

_**Fuck Pete’s entire life.** _

Patrick continued singing as if nothing happened, smiling through the words at Demi, who was leaning on his shoulder. Pete hung near the back, bass poised precariously over his crotch. Through his peripherals, he watched as Joe gave him a funny look; his cheeks must have been bright red. Pursing his lips, Pete stared at one spot on the floor, feeling the blood rush further up to his ears. He could hear the shit-eating grin tinging Patrick’s every word just in front of him.

The rest of the song went thankfully fast; Pete didn’t register a whole lot of it. Mouth dry, Pete forced a seemingly genuine grin at Ellen, hugged Demi, and pretended to pay attention to anything but the small button still sitting front and centre. Patrick eyed him curiously, feigning innocence, but a pointed look told Pete everything he needed to know.

Patrick had done that on purpose.

The walk backstage again was a blur. Patrick dismissed Andy and Joe, saying they’d be ready to go in ten. With the darkest glint in his eyes, he grabbed Pete by the sleeve, yanking him into the dressing room and shutting the door firmly behind them. In one fluid motion, Patrick pinned Pete against it with one hand, locking it with the other. Pete’s eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled shakily.

“Fuck, ‘Trick, _on TV_ —” Pete groaned, lolling his head back. Patrick pressed himself flush against Pete, fisting his hand in the collar of Pete’s shirt. He tugged, forcing Pete’s head to fall forward again as he opened his eyes in surprise.

“Damn right,” Patrick murmured with a smirk, “I wanted to see you squirm.” Peering over his shoulder, an idea visibly wormed its way into Patrick’s head. He raised his eyebrows at pete suggestively, his grin positively evil as he set both hands on his chest, sweet in contrast.

“You know how Ellen said we could take home as much of the catering as we want?”

“I— yeah?”

“How about we take her up on her offer, and you finish up the job at home?” Patrick whispered. Pete groaned, eyes rolling back as Patrick pushed their bodies flush again, ensuring that his belly pressed right into Pete's torso. 

“O-okay,” he breathed, “Abso-fucking-lutely.” Patrick pulled him down by the neck, still tasting of sugar, but dripping with sin.

Pete had a long fucking night ahead of him.


End file.
